Page 109 of When Wrecked Meets Ruined
“Thanks. So are you,” I added.
He huffed out a laugh. “Pretty sure I peaked in high school.”
I side-eyed him. “Hey, man, don’t say that. It’s only our first year. Plenty of time to shine.”
“Yeah, I know. But my name’s not Flash.”
Was he jealous? I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I let it go. Walker and I didn’t even play the same position, so we weren’t in direct competition. I was a starter because Johnny Garcia, a senior and our number one wide receiver, was out for the rest of the season with an injury.
It was a tough break for him and a lucky one for me. That’s how the game was played. If you got your shot, you had to go out there and give it everything. So I wasn’t going to apologize for stealing the glory or trying to make a name for myself.
Walker and I didn’t speak again. For the next half hour, we watched game tapes.
* * *
“Not too tight,” I told the trainer before he started taping my ankles. There were five trainers, but I always went to Craig if I could.
“I’ve been taping you for how many months now?” Craig said. “I know what you like.”
“Just enough to keep me out of trouble,” I said with a grin.
“You’re learning.”
Getting taped was a pain in the ass, and I hated to feel so restricted. If the coaching staff would allow it, I’d go without. But they were adamant about it. I talked to Craig about his kids (his favorite topic), two boys who were both in peewee football while he taped my ankles, a hundred times on each, and my wrists because I used my hands a lot.
“Let’s tape up that thumb.”
“Nah. It’s good.” I wiggled my thumb and jumped to my feet. “Thanks, my man.”
The doorway was so clogged with players waiting to get in that I had to shoulder my way through.
I headed to my locker.
Every player had a photo of themself in uniform above their locker. The kind of photos you’d use in a recruiting brochure. When I’d first arrived, I snapped a photo of my locker and sent it to Brody.
Look at it and weep. Your little bro hit the big time. You see that number on my jersey? Number fucking ONE.
You look like a dipshit. Were you constipated that day?
He was just jealous. I looked damn good in that photo. I grabbed my socks and practice cleats from my locker and sat on the bench to put them on.
While I was lacing up, my phone buzzed. I snatched it off the bench and swiped my thumb over the screen. “Hey, Cherry. Did you get Saturday off?”
She sighed. “I’m sorry. I can’t come to the game.”
I gritted my teeth and pinched the bridge of my nose to stop myself from saying,Why the fuck not?
The other players’ girlfriends came to every home game. Evie went to two games, and I hadn’t even been a starter. Now I was starting, and she wouldn’t even be there to watch. “Yeah, whatever. No big deal.”
“I said I’m sorry.”
“Sometimes, sorry doesn’t cut it. Did you even try to get the day off?”
She was quiet. I took that as a no.
“You know what? Fuck it.” I was all set to end the call. I had two and a half hours of practice ahead of me. Training. Dinner. A shitload of homework. And a girlfriend who couldn’t even get her ass to the game to support me.
“Ridge. I want to be there more than anything, but I need the money, and things are… they’re bad right now.”
